On Singing, Voting, and Work

Okay, this post might be a little flighty (i.e. random—which is the word I use when I can’t think of much to write about) because I am just plain tired. El exhaustedo (didn’t take Spanish in high school, but I’ve clearly managed to pick up a little along the way). Anyway, I’ve slept exactly seven hours in the last two nights combined, so please bear with me and my muddled mind.

So first we’ve got to talk about The Voice. It’s no secret that I love this show, and for so many valid reasons. Like the serious talent these musicians put on display. Like their determination to win. Like their unwillingness to let a dream fade, no matter what their age. Like Adam Levine’s face (did I say that out loud?). Like the background stories that make the performers totally relatable. Like Adam Levine’s face (oops—another slip-up. Can’t seem to help it—It’s like I’m sleep deprived…it’s like I have Tourette’s of the fingers).

But with everything that I find charming and inspiring about this show, there is one thing I’m getting a little weary of. One thing that makes me think, “If I were the producer, I’d do this part differently.” One thing that makes me a believer in the phrase, “too much of a good thing.” And it’s this:

Christina Aguilera’s boobs.

I mean, really, some people are totally and incredibly jealous–Um, I mean… watching the show with children and would rather not have to explain why the headlights blazing on the screen are even on national television in the first place. Some people also have sixteen-year-old-boys who think the sight is pretty awesome…and would rather not hear that either. So Christina, if you’re reading this, tuck the girls in bed the before the show, please. And cover them up good.

And while I’m on the subject, what’s with that hat she’s been sporting the past couple of weeks? Actually, is it a hat? Or a Frisbee placed in an oh-so-convenient place in case she wants to play an impromptu game? Or a…satellite dish? I’m just not getting the whole statement—but I’m pretty sure it’s either shouting “I’m on the cutting edge of fashion,” or “Spin me around and around and I can pick up 958 channels.” Either way, it’s sorta odd.

And then there’s this Presidential election. I don’t even know what to say about that, except I wish someone on the Repub side would win already. Don’t even care who anymore. But I do care about the generic brand of Lego hair they all seem to be sporting, and I would like to give them all make-overs. Maybe put a little styling cream at the front and spike it up a little. Because I know government is important and looks aren’t everything, but I could really get behind a candidate with the appearance of Keith Urban and the brains of Einstein. So could someone please find that candidate? And while I’m waiting, a little tip to the men running right now: Muss up your hair, guys. Grow out that 5-o’clock shadow. I’m telling you, it could only garner more votes.

And speaking of politics, I’ve been working in elementary school PE the past two weeks. At first glance, these things might not appear to be related, but they totally are. Because while those candidates need a serious make-over, I now need a serious massage. And maybe some pain meds. Because these kids run, and they run fast. And they expect you (which would be me) to run with them. And I hung up my track shoes after high school graduation, and now I hate to run. Like, the only reason I want to run EVER is if someone is chasing me. And since that only happens in strange dreams or when I steal my kids Halloween candy, I try not to run all that often.

And along with running, I’ve been playing kick-ball. And jump rope. And hop scotch. And balancing on a balance ball for long periods of time. And I’ve discovered that I stink at balancing, so I’m currently looking to purchase one for my home. Because I will master that second grade toy. I will.

Even though it might make me El Poopedido (there’s that awesome Spanish again), like I am now. Seriously tired. In need of a nap. One that lasts five days. One that makes me stay in bed.

Covered up. Because really that’s the only decent way to be.


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